Alina Lopez [exclusive] Page

The first week was bliss.

Outside, the waves crashed against the rock. The wind howled. But inside the lighthouse, for the first time in over a hundred years, there was the sound of laughter. And the hum, soft and constant, became the rhythm of a new kind of order—one that Alina had never cataloged, never planned for, and never known she needed. alina lopez

She dismissed it. Old buildings settle. The sea does strange things to rock and mortar. The first week was bliss

You are the first one who tried to organize the chaos. You brought order to my randomness. You moved my book. You made me smile. But inside the lighthouse, for the first time

Alina Lopez had always been the type of person who thrived on order. Her desk at the university library was a symphony of color-coded tabs, her spice rack alphabetized, her running routes planned to the tenth of a kilometer. At twenty-eight, she was a rising archivist, more comfortable with the silent company of old manuscripts than with the messy, unpredictable world of people.

“I was tired of being alone,” Alina said.